


the lion, the beast, the beat

by sybil



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, In Which Cersei Isn't An Utter Bitch, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-03-07 20:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18880549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybil/pseuds/sybil
Summary: The year is 1973 and Brienne Tarth is an ambitious young journalist with The Rolling Stone. Given a pass/fail assignment covering The Kingsguard, a band that seems to fly in the face of the idea that rock 'n roll is well and truly dead. Instead of chasing her off they invite her on a whirlwind tour of jealousy, drugs, and self-discovery in lieu of the interview she truly seeks with the band's mysterious lead guitarist: Jaime Lannister.Inspired by Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous.[ No Beta. Send Help. ]





	1. a great, big world

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Game of Thrones fanfiction, but I felt so inclined after the disaster that is the eighth and final season. Can I write two separate fics for two separate fandoms? We'll see!

_Raised on promises_  
_She couldn't help thinkin' that there_  
_Was a little more to life_  
_Somewhere else_  
  
_\--_ **_Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers (American Girl)_ **

**SAN FRANCISCO, 1973**

The first time she sees him in person it is like something out of a fevered dream.

Flashing stage lights cast them all in a molten glow, the roars of the crowd all-encompassing as the din presses hard into her ears. Heat from the crush of thousands of bodies ignites the air with something electric, something primal that reaches down inside all of them and invites chaos and abandon out to play.

He had shucked his shirt, kicked off his shoes. Light and shadow dancing along the sculpted muscle, the graceful lines of his back -- a body she was not overly shocked to find beautiful in a wild, leonine sort of way. Further illustrated by the lion tattoo scrawled across it, mouth open in a silent roar, body undulating as he swayed.

A choir of voices call out their adulation, but he does not hear them as he coaxes the melody from the guitar strings like he is trying to summon a god.

_He **is** a god. _

She shakes off the thought, only vaguely horrified by her treacherous mind. _There is something about him,_ her thoughts persist. _Strange, frenetic energy pulsates around him -- a magnetism that lures one in like a moth to the flame._

Goldie nudges her, snapping her back to the present as she wiggles the pencil Brienne had been attempting to write with in front of her face. She tries to snatch it back, but the golden-haired woman laughs and shakes her head, pointing to the world beyond their little hiding place stage left. _Watch,_ she mouths.

What she’s really trying to say is what everyone had always told her: be in the moment. What Goldie and everyone else failed to understand was that writing it down was her way, that standing off to the side and acting as witness and herald helped her to understand. The sidelines were where she belonged, where she was most comfortable -- no one wanted a tall, blonde beanpole with a plain face in their shots anyway.

She humors the girl standing beside her, knowing full well that if she had not been adopted and pulled inside by the ‘band-aids’ she might never have stood where she was now. Hugging the notebook to her chest she inhales the night, the heat, the sound.

Witnessing history.

Goldie sways, her long hair threading through the air like the snap of a banner. Enthralled, consumed, enraptured. Brienne envies her the abandon, allowing her own body to sway gently as sweat trickles down the nape of her neck.

This is a moment, a memory. She carves it into her mind the way Michelangelo carved magic into marble, painstaking with the details in a desperate attempt to cling to it all. Cynics could tell her rock ‘n roll was dead all they liked, but tonight in California it seemed to be alive and well and all around her.

When The Kingsguard finish their set she exhales a long, shaky breath and squares her shoulders. They’re barrelling right at her, Aerys with his long ash blonde hair tied off in a haphazard ponytail, quiet Ned with his bass who seemed to always bear the same dour expression, loud Robert with his braying laugh twirling his drumsticks between his fingers.

And Jaime.

Guitar hanging by its strap and t-shirt thrown over his shoulder, he’s looking behind him, presumably for his missing shoes which are nowhere to be seen. He nearly plows right into her, Brienne side-stepping enough that they only just graze one another.

It is just enough contact to bring him back to the present, curiosity looming in lurid green eyes. He pauses before her and Goldie, cocking his head and shaking the sweat from his hair.

“Who’s this, Miss Gunn?” He has to yell above the enduring screams of fans still riding the body high.

Jaime Lannister is standing right in front of her, lauded as another guitar prodigy and possible hall-of-famer and all she can focus on is how she shouldn’t be focusing on the angles of his hip bones as they jut from low slung jeans.

Goldie Gunn saves her as she takes Brienne’s hand, leaning forward to mutter something in Jaime’s ear as they are ushered off the stage by another band.

Whatever she had said to Jaime has him tense, mouth curled behind the whiskers of an established beard. The rest of the band is sapping the chill from the white cinder blocks that comprise the hallway, attention caught by the beautiful women at the opposite end that eagerly await them.

Jaime breaks from them, approaching Aerys and muttering something in the lead singer’s ear. He rounds on Brienne and Goldie then, violet eyes flashing.

“The Enemy,” he greets. “Seven hells, you’re a tall, ugly thing.”

She fights the urge to roll her eyes, wrenching her hand out of Goldie’s grasp. “I’m a journalist from Rolling Stone, Brienne Tarth. I was hoping to do an interview if you could spare the time.”

Aerys is a beautiful creature too, but there is a sharpness to him. A hairpin curve in his personality that threatened on madness one time too many; Varys had warned her of him before she had set off on this little excursion.

She sees it now in the ferocity that splits his mouth, sharp teeth bared. “The Enemy: a rock critic. No fuckin’ thanks.”

They turn away from her then, Goldie trailing behind murmuring something along the lines of: “ _I’ll handle this.”_

Brienne had learned long ago to fight her own battles, futile though they may be. Braced like a boxer in the ring she heaved a sigh, gathered her courage, and spoke: “Aerys, Rob, Ned, Jaime. I love your band -- _Ninepenny Kings_ was eye-opening, Ned’s baseline sharp as a razor, Aerys’ voice like a menacing siren, Rob’s amazing drum work, and Jaime? You struggled at the beginning of the album, but in that song, you found the sound. It was like...a religious experience.”

They’re all staring at her now, the side of Goldie’s mouth curling up in an encouraging smile.

“Good luck on your tour.” She throws all her good manners at their feet and turns on her heel, leaving them in flabbergasted silence.

She’s nearly made it down the length of the hallway, rage and disappointment burning a hole in her gut when a hand closes around her elbow. “We might be willing to talk after all, Brienne Tarth.”

The reptilian quality of Aerys’ eyes had not quite faded, but it had softened; friendlier now that he realized she was perhaps a fan, something he hoped to manipulate in the band’s favor. In his favor.

“Tell me more about my greatness,” Rob barks with laughter, ruddy face split into a wild grin. “I’m a whore for compliments.”

“Robert, you’re a whore for just about anything,” Ned counters with a snort, offering Brienne a shadow of a friendly smile.

Jaime’s speed increases until he’s walking alongside Goldie and Aerys. “Tyrion’s going to hate this.”

“So serious, Jaime,” Goldie teases in a tone meant to sooth, reaching out to pinch a sweaty cheek. “She’s one of us, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

 

* * *

 

Varys had regaled her with the many reasons why one must never meet their heroes, never allow personal attachment to cloud the truth. He yet believed in journalistic integrity, in his own opinion, in the old days that were now dead and dormant while the country reassembled itself after a great and terrible war.

 _“‘Horror birthed the greats,’”_ he had told her over a cup of coffee, a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke hanging over their heads. _“‘Armistice destroyed them.’”_

Listening to Aerys prattle on about the meaning behind rock ‘n roll while Jaime eyed her balefully from his corner, a towel sweeping over guitar strings. She followed him with the mic, gleaning bits and pieces from half-played riffs while Goldie and her friends looked on, passing a flask between them.

She cannot help but revel in the rush, she knows there’s a high color to her cheeks and she knows her eyes are shining with excitement even if she repeatedly schools her features into something subdued, unaffected. Brienne Tarth had never been ‘cool’ a day in her life, but it was nice to pretend for a few hours.

When the roadies are finished packing up and there’s a beer in everyone’s hand she watches their tour bus pull up, Aerys’ arm wrapped around Goldie’s middle. “Hey, Enemy, why don’t you come see us in L.A.? We’ll be at the Riot House in West Hollywood. Ask for King Arthur and his men.”

Goldie disentangles herself from the lead singer’s embrace, pressing a piece of paper with a phone number into Brienne’s hand. “We live in the same city, call me next Friday and I’ll come get you.”

Passed by men toting speakers and miscellaneous equipment, beautiful girls that moved like perfumed wraiths. She watches the doors slide closed, catches Jaime staring at her from his window seat.

She raises a hand to wave before the bus roars off, muted rock music and squealing laughter left spinning in the night air.

Later that night as she sits before her typewriter, bare legs crossed and fan at full blast, she closes her eyes to recall the things Goldie hadn’t let her write down. In the midst of that kaleidoscopic blur stood Jaime, standoffish and shirtless Jaime.

If she could get him to sit down with her for an interview she was sure she could unravel him, explain what it was about him that drew the eye and the ear. Balls of crumpled paper pile up around her and when dawn breaks her father finds her asleep at her desk, abandoned pages strewn across the floor.


	2. where the shadows run from themselves

_At the party she was kindness in the hard crowd._  
_Consolation for the old wound now forgotten._  
_Yellow tigers crouched in jungles in her dark eyes._  
_She's just dressing, goodbye windows, tired starlings._ **  
**  
\-- Cream **(White Room)**

 

**THE THURSDAY BEFORE,  SOMEWHERE IN SAN FRANCISCO, 1973**

It had all started out innocently enough, harrying a local legend while sending articles from her high school paper and any other published works to any and every rock ‘n roll rag she could think of. She could hardly believe her eyes walking by one of the local radio stations, seeing him inside gesticulating wildly as he spoke.

The female disc jockey was laughing and rolling her eyes, watching him sift through her record collection and no doubt giving his opinion on each and every album he brandished under her nose. _The_ Varys Lys of _Spider Magazine_.

Varys was a colorful man without meaning to be, no doubt taking a page out of Elton John’s lookbook with his yellow sunglasses, a single earring dangling from his right ear. _Detroit Sucks_ emblazoned in bold letters on his black t-shirt, faded jeans bearing a patchwork of stains. Anyone else would pass him on the street and have no idea they were passing a legendary journalist -- someone that Brienne put on a pedestal right next to Hunter S. Thompson.

A poet, a madman, someone that _breathed_ music and wasn’t afraid to look the gods that created it right in the eye and **demand** they do better.

“So you’re the kid that keeps filling up my mailbox?” He looks up at her over the tops of his glasses, surprise written over his weathered features. Brienne nods, aware of what he sees: a tall, plain girl in a plain white t-shirt. An unassuming, uninteresting background character in flared jeans and Keds that were definitely on their way to their final resting place in the garbage bin.

Varys quizzes her on the spot and no artist is safe. She defends her opinions with passion, even if her stomach flips every time he gives her a discerning look. “C’mon kid, I need some coffee.”

* * *

 

 

“The Doors?” She asks as her shoe dangles off her big toe, a small smile dug into the corners of her mouth.

“Morrison? Drunken idiot playing at the poet.” His brow furrows, catching the disgusted looks from the younger people that populate the cafe. “Gimme The Guess Who, Iggy Pop. At least they openly admit to being drunken idiots. What d’you think about the Stones?”

Her mouth quirks, a french fry poised before her lips. “Honestly? I can’t imagine a time where they wouldn’t be relevant -- their sound is timeless, wild, and it isn’t limited. Keith invented a wholly separate language with only a guitar. They’ll play until they can’t play anymore.”

Varys smiles, shaking his head. “You’re better off going to college, becoming a doctor or...a nurse or something. Give up now, rock’s dead. Nothing but a feast for crows, man.”

She stares at him, he sounds so similar to her father’s that it makes her squirm. Both feet descend to the floor so fast they make an audible _thunk!_ as she leans forward and slowly shakes her head.

“Rock isn’t dead yet, and even if I’m only to write the death throes, I still want to be there. Be here.”

He seems to recognize the stubborn jaw, the shoulders thrown back. Brienne will never be sure what it is that pulls the next words from his mouth, but he puts her on the path toward her dream nonetheless.

“Gimme a thousand words on Kingsguard, they’re opening for Humble Pie this Friday. I have my next issue already so I’ll pass it on to a buddy of mine at Rolling Stone if it’s any good.” He holds up a hand as the grin that splits her mouth threatens to swallow her entirely. “Don’t thank me yet, you’re a damn good writer but they’ll eat you alive -- if you manage to get anywhere near them, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

**PRESENT, FRIDAY AFTERNOON, TARTH HOUSEHOLD, SAN FRANCISCO, 1973**

“You’re awfully quiet, Brienne. What’s wrong?”

She should have simply asked the second she got home from the Kingsguard show the first night but had fallen victim to one of her oldest enemies: overthinking. Her fork had now paused it’s listless dance across her plate, knowing full well Goldie was waiting just down the street for her per their agreement.

“I, uh…” _God damn it._ “I have plans tonight.”

He stares in response, suspicion beginning to rise. “And?”

“Well, remember that gentleman I told you about? Varys Lys? He gave me an assignment to cover a band, a popular band. They invited me to another show in Los Angeles this weekend and um, a friend and I are planning to leave this afternoon.”

She steels herself and has the good sense to appear chagrined. Selwyn Tarth has never liked last minute plans, but he disliked her dream occupation even more. His son’s lasting influence had spiraled into an obsession he just...did not understand. Of course, he wanted her to embrace her excellence, just in a field of study that was decidedly more sterile and less prone to the morally repugnant bacchanal one associated with the current state of music.

He was protective of her, sometimes overly so and judging by his current expression she was well on her way to a lecture.

“You want to go to Los Angeles for the weekend?” His brow creases, looking down at his plate and chewing thoughtfully. “I thought...I thought you were going to be filling out more college applications.”

She winces, resumes chasing a tomato around her plate. “I fully intend to, in fact, I did two last night.”

“Why did you wait so long to ask me?”

“I didn’t know how to ask you,” she replies honestly. “I was worried you would be angry.” _Or say no. Please don’t say no._

A growing sense of dread floods her as he slowly puts down his fork, leaning back in his chair to process. She _could_ remind him that she _is_ eighteen. The same age as Donnie when he had answered the draft, but they don’t talk about that -- a blow too low, a wound not yet scarred over if ever it was meant to heal at all.

“You know how I feel about that _music_  if you could call it that. Bach, Wagner, Debussy...now _that_ is music. And the company those people keep, the things they do it’s...” _Unseemly, unsafe. You could get hurt._

Her jaw clenches, hands falling to her lap in fists. “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me, Dad? Doubt my judgment? If I had friends I could have just as easily lied to you, but I don’t and I wouldn’t.”

He opens his mouth to protest, her words and the truth of them, but she forges ahead.

“I’m odd, I know I am. I never fit in anywhere I go, people don’t notice me. Not the way I want them to. This opportunity might not ever come my way again and...I don’t want to regret not taking it. _Please._ ”

She watches his jaw tick, a large hand raking through prematurely greying hair.

It felt as though an eternity had passed before he finally spoke again, resignation highlighting his tone. “I want a phone call when you get there and at least twice a day until you leave.”

Elation tore through her with brute force, her chair flying out from beneath her as she rounded the table to encircle him in a tight hug before he could change his mind. He freezes for a moment, a hoarse laugh of surprise slipping from his mouth before fondly patting her shoulder, sighing as she flew away from him and down the hall.

Ten minutes later she reappears with a worn satchel bouncing off her hip, still aglow at her triumph. Selwyn hardly has time to react before she’s dropping a kiss on his cheek and heading for the door.

“Brienne!”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder with wide eyes, hoping against hope he had not suddenly changed his mind.

“Don’t take drugs.”

“ _Dad_.”

And with that, she was out the door and racing down the street.

* * *

 

Goldie’s pedicured feet are hanging out of the driver’s side window, bobbing in time with whatever is playing on the radio when she skids to a stop. The blonde woman’s head lolls to the right, oversized sunglasses askew atop her head. “I was starting to give up hope! What happened?”

Her emerald eyes show no signs of reproach and yet Brienne cannot stop herself from dipping her head slightly as she settles into the passenger seat, fiddling with the strap of her satchel. “I waited until the last minute to tell my dad, he doesn’t really...approve of my taste in music.”

“Brie, look at me,” Goldie’s tone is light, soothing.

She raises her head and turns to look at the blonde woman before a flash from a camera briefly blinds her. Mouth falling open in unhappy surprise, conflicting with the laughter that fills the car.

“I just wanted a picture of you before we took off, you know? It’s how I remember. Besides, you look cute.” Goldie shakes the polaroid, and Brienne decides mischief (like everything else) looks good on her and wonders yet again what had possessed her to drag her in the backstage, ignoring the doorman’s protests.

In fact, she was going to ask her, but before she could get the words out the photograph is held out before her. “See?”

Brienne saw a too-tall girl slouching in a passenger seat, large blue eyes holding...sadness? Fear? Long hair hanging down her shoulder in a messy braid, a stark contrast against her black shirt and lips, too big to be considered sensual, thinned slightly in a pout.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” she murmured, shoving the picture away.

 _Thwack!_ “Ow! What the hell did you do that for?!” Brienne rubs at her shoulder, surprised more or less by the sudden contact.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that in front of me _ever again_. Now let’s get the hell outta here.” Sliding her sunglasses down they peel out and into the street.

 

* * *

 

“So, can you explain this whole…’band-aid’ thing to me again?” Brienne asks as they roar down the highway, well over the speed limit.

Goldie’s shoulder hitches in a shrug as she drops one hand from the steering wheel to light a cigarette. “Well, as you learned the night we met I don’t take kindly to being called a groupie. I seek to foster the imagination, to inspire. Provide entertaining intrigue.

A band-aid is a true fan, we aren’t in it for the fame. And I always tell my girls it’s all in good fun. If you remember that you have a good time and you don’t get hurt.”

Brienne imagines that men must truly worship at the foot of her altar, watching the scarf she’d tied around her head billow with her long golden hair. There is an air about her, a promise of adventure and unknown. _It must be so easy for them to love you,_ she thinks. _One look at you and they probably can’t see anything else._

“Kind of like the Musae from Greek myth,” she finally comments, pausing as Goldie offers her a puff of the cigarette. “Is Goldie even your real name?”

She takes a sharp inhale of the cigarette and a coughing fit overtakes her almost immediately, grey smoke leaving her nose and mouth in hacking puffs.

Goldie chuckles and takes the cigarette back, winking as she takes a drag. “I’ll never tell.”

* * *

 

Los Angeles was a zoo.

Colorful billboards, throngs of colorful people, streets choked with expensive cars. If Goldie suddenly lost control of the wheel there was a decent chance she’d hit someone famous if the car jumped the curb. Brienne watches it all with wide, wide eyes -- wanting to soak in every last detail for fear she might never see it again.

Goldie is watching her out of the corner of her eye, a wistful smile on her perfect lips. “Don’t get too excited. Parking’s going to be a fucking nightmare.”

And she certainly wasn’t wrong. It seemed to Brienne that the entire city had laid siege to the Hyatt Continental and she found herself wondering how the hell they were going to make it past the roaring crowd until Goldie took her hand and let her down an alleyway. A few calculated raps at a door and it was opening to them, Goldie warmly embracing the man on the other side.

“Do you know everyone?”

“What?!” A tsunami of sound and her voice was lost as Goldie guided her through a crush of bodies.

Brienne begins to shout, “I _said_ do you know ever--”

“ _Oh my god, it’s Bowie!_ ” Brienne’s head whips to look, only catching sight of a shock of bright red hair and a large bodyguard shielding him as elevator doors slide closed. If not for the insistent tugging of Goldie she may have rooted to the spot in shock.

 _You’re in a hotel made infamous for its clientele, you idiot._ If she had been hoping for a reprieve from the madness within the bowels of the hotel she did not find it -- there were people everywhere. Smoking cigarettes in the hallway, people screaming and hugging and strains of music drifting up and down every hallway they found themselves in.

It was loud, manic, nothing like the orderly life she was used to.

And she loved it.

“Robert Plant signed my t-shirt,” a scrawny boy stated dreamily as he followed Brienne and Goldie down the hallway. “He signed it with _this_ marker.”

Surreptitious inspection of their new companion revealed he was more than likely on...something. Pupils blown wide, eyes glossy, but the expression on his face was nothing short of beatific.

“That’s Pod, **huge** Zeppelin fan.”

Brienne nods mutely before they’re set upon by four girls Brienne immediately recognizes from the previous Kingsguard show.

“You made it! And you brought our new friend.” A statuesque brunette with gorgeous caramel skin was smiling at her -- _what was her name again?_ “Tyrion is chomping at the bit to lecture her.”

“Oh, don’t go scaring her, Aster!” Another woman speaks, canting her hip to one side and winking at Brienne. _This one is Rose Red, I think._ “He’s mostly bark.”

Goldie herds them all into the room, throwing her bag on the bed. “Best get ready, ladies. The night’s still young.”

They float from room to room, Brienne bringing up the rear to watch. It’s something akin to sorcery -- these women merely make their entrance and seem unaffected by it all. More than once Goldie slinks by her with a drink in hand and murmurs, “ _Be cool._ ”

Eventually, news reaches their ears that Kingsguard has _finally_ checked in and they descend upon the room together, but it’s Goldie that has the crowd held at rapt attention. Her wild paisley dress billowing as she spins for dramatic effect.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls, pilfering a joint from a diminutive man that feigns a scowl. “As we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and...oh, fuck it!”

The room dissolves into laughter, but Brienne can see it -- they are all instantly charmed. Someone shoves a bottle of beer into her hand and she finds herself glancing down, this had been the one Goldie had stolen the joint from and all of the sudden it clicks: “Tyrion.”

The man squints up, offering her a lopsided smirk to compliment his mismatched eyes. “Very good. You’re the reporter. Jaime was right, there’s no way in hell anyone could miss you.”

Her skin prickles, blushing, she knows she must be. “I...Aerys invited me along, I told them I wanted to do an article. They were...reluctant at first.”

“As well they should be,” he replies, tone clipped. “They have enough going on right now that they don’t need to worry about getting skewered by a critic.”

Brienne’s brow furrows, a protest building in her throat. “I’m not going to skewer them, I wanted to prove someone wrong. Show them that the music isn’t dead...yet. Write something real.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he takes a swig from an open bottle of Jack Daniels. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Be good to my boys.”

“Or…?” Sensing that he was working up to a threat.

“Or I’ll have you thrown out on your ass.” And with that he walks away.

“Don’t mind him,” she turns to find Ned Stark nursing a half-empty beer. “He means well.”

Brienne scoffs as she takes a sip of her own. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

A quick survey of the room tells her that Goldie has disappeared, presumably somewhere with Aerys. Rob is lounging on a couch, scouring some woman’s throat with his tongue and Jaime is sitting cross-legged in an overstuffed chair, cradling the neck of an acoustic guitar in one hand while the other pulls a pipe away from his mouth. He makes eye contact with her then, though she can’t hazard to guess what he’s thinking as sticky-sweet smoke billows out of his mouth.

She looks away.

“Would you mind sparing a few moments of your time, Ned?”

“Why not? I have to warn you though: I’m boring compared to these assholes.”

* * *

 

 

“So you don’t...partake? Why is that?” They had managed to find seats, Brienne folding her long legs beneath her, chin balanced on her fist with her notebook splayed out on the arm of a couch that was (hopefully) not covered in...well, she didn’t want to think about it.

He shrugs, surveying the room much as she had. “Promised my girl. She has to keep to the straight and narrow therefore so must I.”

“Oh?”

“She’s pregnant,” he offers with a cautious smile. “Our second.”

“ _Oh._ Congratulations!”

He laughs at her expression, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Did you think rock stars were all single, sowing their oats wherever they please? I mean, these idiots are part-time single sluts, but not me. Just not how I’m wired.”

“And your girl doesn’t worry?” She doesn’t have to elucidate any further, knowing he understands her meaning.

“Of course she worries, worries that Jaime and Aerys will kill us all, worries that I’ll somehow get electrocuted on stage. She knows me though, never given her a reason to doubt me.”

“It must be hard, being away from her and the children.”

He nods, eyes focusing on some distant image that Brienne couldn’t see. “It is, but this is what I love and what I’m good at, Gods help me.”

“It must be nice to have someone that supports your dreams,” she offers, not realizing the wistful nature of her tone until she realizes he’s watching her intently. “Someone that understands.”

“Whoever it is, I’m sure they’re just worried about you,” he offers kindly. “Hell, I’m worried about you and we’ve only just met.”

She narrows her eyes, shoulders hitching ever so slightly, “I can take care of myself.”

It comes out snappier than intended and she feels an immediate spark of guilt, he’d been the nicest to her so far barring Robert’s crude salutation and she was beginning to suspect that Ned Stark was more than likely a rarity in this particular room. Most would succumb to the temptation eventually, but she had a feeling he was true to his word no matter the outcome.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, “you didn’t deserve that.”

He waves it off, finishing the rest of his beer. “I’m not that great with words, no lyricist like Jaime or Aerys. I only meant to say that you seem...genuine and to be cautious. People here are not everything that they seem at a glance.”

“I’ll remember that.”

He rises from his seat, groaning as he knocks over a series of empty bottles neither of them is responsible for. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to find my bed before someone claims it for themselves.”

She rises to her feet as well, offering him a smile. “Thank you for talking to me.”

“Likewise, it can get terribly dull at these things when you have to remain mostly sober.”

Her gaze lands on Jaime and she wonders if she should test her luck, he’s relaxed into the chair now, picking guitar strings as Aster whispers something in his ear. She approaches but is stopped by the glare he fixes her with.

“Jaime could we…”

“Not now,” he all but snarls, shaking blonde hair out of his eyes. “Bother someone else.”

Heat rises in her cheeks again, but she finds herself staring back at him with a calmness she hadn’t been aware she possessed. “All right.”

A bark of laughter cuts through the room, Rob pulling himself away from his...anatomy partner to guffaw in the guitarist’s direction. “Don’t take it personally, girl. He’s just pissed you called him out on his shitty guitar playing.”

She looks back at Jaime and sees wrath seething in his vivid green eyes. “I didn’t…” _But she did, she remembers now._

“Shut the fuck up, Rob.”

“What? It’s true. You were bitching the whole ride that night, and you’ve been bitching off and on ever since.” Rob hardly seems cowed by Jaime’s aggressive display and Jaime is perfectly rigid now, baring his teeth and refusing to be soothed by Aster’s hand creeping down his chest.

“ _Rob.”_

“Jesus Christ, take the stick outta your ass y’fuckin’ prima donna.”

Brienne winces, slowly edging her way out of the room. “Night guys.”

The last thing she sees before managing to exit entirely is Jaime, glaring at her retreating form.

When she opens the door to the room she’s supposed to share with the other girls she sees two figures moving in the dark, a low moan easing from a woman’s throat. She shuts the door quietly and finds herself sliding down the wall next to the door with a sigh.

She opens her notebook and continues her notes.

* * *

 

 

Brienne is jarred awake by someone kicking at her foot and she shoots up, off the hotel carpet clutching her notebook. “Wha--?”

Blinking the sleep from her eyes she realizes that it’s Jaime staring down at her, befuddled or amused she cannot tell. “What time is it?” Mumbling as her back finds the wall of the corridor again, a hand coming to rub at her neck.

“It’s 6:30 in the morning, why are you sleeping in the hallway?”

She chews at her lip, glancing at the door. “When I got back one of the girls was...occupied so I thought it best to…”

“You mean people were fucking in your room and it scared you away.” The word ‘fucking’ from his mouth shoots through her like a spear, reproachful eyes flying to his face and seeing a smirk tucked into the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

“Do you see anyone else?” He counters smoothly, arms folding in front of his chest as he makes a show of looking around.

 _Stop looking at me._ “What are you doing awake anyway? I thought rock stars slept ‘til late afternoon.”

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders. “I might have, but there’s a woman in my bed that’s snoring loud enough to bring the ceiling down.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” she responds primly, closing her eyes and willing him away. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice is excruciatingly close and when her eyes open again he’s dropped down to a knee. “Get up.”

Who does he think he is? Her jaw clenches, nostrils flaring as she draws her knees up to her chest to act as a barrier between them. What exactly did he want from her? An apology about her earlier comment? In truth, she was amazed he had remembered it or her at all, but it seemed Rob had not been telling a tale if his attitude the previous night was any indication.

“If you think I’m going to say that I’m sorry or that I was wrong you’re wasting your time!” she hissed.

He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Are you really this much of a wench in the morning?”

“No, I think it’s just you,” she snaps.

“Seems to me we’re at an impasse, then.” He hunkers down beside her, attempting to pull the notebook from her hands while his own brush the tops of her knees.

She jumps as though he’d struck her, the notebook locked in her arms. “What do you want, Jaime? You were…” A fucking asshole? Acting like a spoiled brat? “Last night you seemed…”

“C’mon Enemy, spit it out.”

Met with stony silence he rolls his eyes and pushes himself up off the floor, extending a hand. “There’s coffee in the lounge, let’s go.”

Swatting his hand away with a scowl she rises to her feet, rolling into a stretch before following him down the hallway. Was this meant to be a peace offering of some kind? It was far more likely that Tyrion had learned of what had transpired and had told Jaime to make nice with the journalist. _Journalist._ She smiles at that, not noticing the curious sideways glance Lannister aimed in her direction.

The Riot House is an entirely different world in daylight, subdued and devoid of the gaggles of screaming fans and harried hotel employees. Brienne follows a few steps behind Jaime, knowing that Varys would laugh in her ear when she called to tell him that he had been right: never meet your heroes. It wasn’t that he was somehow _less_ when he wasn’t performing, it was the attitude she found off-putting.

Sneering, carnivorous. As if he saw the gift he had, but somehow wasn’t satisfied in the least. Her train of thought veers off the tracks when he clicks his tongue to get attention as if she were a horse. Her eyes narrow and he only laughs in response as he breezes through a side door.

 _All these side doors, it’s like...it’s like they have a gateway to a world we don’t get to see._ He’s lead her into the actual kitchen, she realizes, eyeing the stainless steel and the methodical milling of its denizens.

“Just in case,” he explains offhand as he nods to an unoccupied prep table with a plate of food already in place. “It’s far too early for a riot, don’t you think?”

She rolls her eyes, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Is Tyrion making you do this?”

“Do what?”

Her hands wrap around a mug of coffee that was no doubt meant for him, letting the metal table dig into her thigh. The first sip burning her tongue, eyes closing as though fending off a fresh wave of sleep. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” That fucking smirk makes another appearance and she knows now that he is definitely toying with her, that this had definitely been some elaborate ruse.

“Tell me what you want right now or I’m leaving. I’m tired, my back hurts, and I haven’t even showered.” Her tone is sharp, confident. Varys had advised her to treat musicians like toddlers, and at the time she had thought it an odd practice. Not so odd now.

The puckish facade finally slips and Brienne cannot help but feel accomplished. _There you are._ His green eyes turn from their teasing glint back to what she was familiar with: predatory, almost cruel. She found a part of herself regretted being responsible for the transition, wished that she could go back to that night when he hadn’t even been aware she existed. Or perhaps before Goldie told him who she was.

“I wanted to know,” he scoops a piece of egg off the plate and into his mouth, talking as he chewed, “what gave you the impression I was struggling on the _Brotherhood_ album?” His handsome features are pinched, but he shoves the plate in her direction anyway and she pushes the coffee cup to him.

“Why does my opinion bother you so much?” Annoyance had given way to intrigue, blue eyes affixed to his face. _What’s the matter? No one’s ever questioned you before?_

“Just...tell me.”

For a brief moment, she considers playing the fool as he had, just to get even. Just to force him to partake of his own bitter medicine so he might know what it felt like for a normal citizen not comfortably seated on a pedestal. The game died before it could be formed into words, however, thwarted by the look on his face. Desperation.

She gestures for the coffee, they switch again. It’s odd, thinking about the timeline of events that had led to this moment. Sharing breakfast with Jaime Lannister? _Welcome to the life of a journalist._ “Okay, okay,” she acquiesces, “just give me a second.”

She takes another scalding gulp of coffee and sighs, studying the tiled floors before finally meeting his gaze. “This is just an _opinion_ ,” she has to stress this so he understands, “but...in your earlier albums and in the song _Ninepenny Kings_ there’s this physicality. You’re an extremely expressive guitarist -- I mean, take _Smiling Knight,_ for example. Your fretwork, the distant miking to get the depth of sound. If playing the guitar was boxing I wouldn’t want to go up against you.

“I guess I could just be imagining it, but on _Brotherhood_ you seemed...disinterested, listless, angry in a way that was different from all the other ways you’d been angry before. You didn’t wield the guitar like a sword in those songs, it sounded more like...you wanted to break the damn thing. Something serious must have happened if _Ninepenny_ was the only song you could allow yourself to connect to and you connected so much I don’t think anyone else really noticed the pieces that felt out of place in the earlier tracks.”

At some point during her little speech, she had glanced away from him, nervous as to what his reaction might be. After all, they’d never met before last week and yet here she was talking about something as intimate as the way he played guitar. When she finally dared to sneak a peek at him through the veil of her lashes he was staring at her, near slack-jawed before he remembered to shut his mouth.

“Anyway, I really need to shower so I’ll leave you to it and bother you for a proper interview later tonight after the show.” The words nearly come out in one long, run-on sentence before she breaks away in long, loping strides that could definitely be construed as a run.

For a second she thinks he calls her a name other than ‘Enemy’ but she cannot hear it, nor does she want to.

 

* * *

 

Brienne had fallen back asleep after scrubbing the stench of liquor, cigarettes, and other vices from her skin. When she was shaken awake by Rose, telephone in hand, a bubble of panic rose and expanded within her. _Your dad,_ she mouths. _Seems upset._ Accepting the telephone she sighs into the receiver and readies herself for the lecture.

She had spent at least 45 minutes on the phone all told, barely getting a word in edgewise, but when she did it was only to calmly assure her father that she was indeed not dead in a ditch or kidnapped. Eventually, his anger cooled long enough to ask her if L.A. had been everything she’d thought it would be.

“And more,” she had answered simply.

That admission alone earned her an extra ten on the phone. When he finally released her she fought the urge to simply sink back down in bed, remembering that she had more or less pressed Jaime for an interview without actually sticking around to hear if he’d agreed. Goldie had pointed out his room on her way to the group suite, presumably to orchestrate tonight’s party.

When she knocked on the door she had little trouble hearing his answer as he shouted it through the door. “Go away!”

She rolls her eyes, knocking again. “I told you I’d be back for an interview, Jaime.”

“I’m feeling far too honestright now to talk to you, Enemy. Go away!”

“Jaime,” she growls back at him, stepping back when the door swings open to a gloriously nude Aster.

She feels her eyes widen, mouth shaping an ‘o’ of surprise that the other girl merely shrugs off, “Don’t worry Brienne, I’ll get him to talk to you later.”

When the door clicks shut she finds herself rooted to the spot, blinking as if to dispel the image from her head. Aster’s voice is clear as a bell on the other side of the door, admonishing Jaime for his rudeness.

_Well then._

 

* * *

 

She finds herself embroiled in a trivia session with Tyrion, and she must have done well for the crowd gathered around to listen.

“Was I wrong to work nights to try to build a good life,” Tyrion sings, hideously off-key, “All work and no play has just cost me a wife.”

Brienne pulls a sour face, rolling her eyes and attempting to put on a show of being stumped before she shrugs, “R.B. Greaves. I hate that song, by the way, he wants to leave his wife and put the moves on his secretary. Wants the secretary to deliver the letter? Give me a break, and that's not rock by the way -- that's soul.”

Tyrion laughs, shaking his head in wonderment. “Okay, okay...what about the year The Rolling Stones formed?”

“1962,” she replies almost immediately. “And just because I feel like this is your next question: original line-up was Brian Jones, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Bill Wyman, and Ian Stewart.” The answer is met with a round of applause.

“You have firmly removed all doubts as to your knowledge of our beloved medium,” Tyrion declares to the room, but there’s a certain smugness set in his features that can only mean another question. “But next to no one is privy to this, my last question. What is the name of Jaime’s guitar?”

Before Brienne could answer a familiar voice cuts through the crowd, “Can we play a different game? Preferably with more drinking?”

Jaime is watching her again, but it isn’t annoyance or anger coloring his green eyes. There is still a guarded quality to his features that finds her skin prickling in response, looking away to Tyrion who still has an odd, knowing smile on his mouth.

“Miss Brienne Tarth, we’d like to invite you to tour with us this summer.” He says at length, chuckling at her shell shocked expression.

Tour? Go on tour? Excitement and adrenaline are bedfellows in her bloodstream, blue eyes wide with shock. “Are you sure? I mean, did everyone in the band okay this or was it just you?”

“Oh, we voted already,” he replies breezily, a smirk directed at someone in the crowd.

“When?”

“Just now.”

 _Holy shit._ Goldie drops into a chair beside her and offers her an ecstatic, triumphant smile and she almost answers right away until an image of her father's worried face floats to the forefront of her mind. She could not just abscond to parts unknown like a thief in the night, not if she wanted her father sending law enforcement after her. This time she would have to speak to him directly, unable to wallow in uncertainty for nearly a week before finally donning her battered courage to ask. Goldie had picked up on her pensive expression and before Tyrion could press her further Goldie interjected on her behalf.  
  
"She has a life, Tyrion, let her make the proper arrangements. You don't depart until Wednesday, is that right?" She stares pointedly at Tyrion, hands smoothing her midi skirt. "Plenty of time to get ready, we'll meet you at the appointed time and place."  
  
Later that evening as she and Goldie sit in bed sharing a cigarette and a half-empty bottle of rum Brienne regales her with the odd tale of Jaime Lannister, watching the smooth transition of expression: angry, suspicious, amused. Brienne clears her throat, happy if only for the fact she no longer chokes when the smoke is pulled down into her lungs. "I think I owe you a debt I could never hope to repay, but  _help me._ There is just no way my dad will be okay with any of this and before you say it, yes, I realize I am an adult but he tends to..." She trails off, gesturing helplessly.  
  
Goldie merely nods, palms sliding up her legs as she applies lotion. "Well, aside from your father and Jaime being Jaime I think you'll have fun."  
  
"So long as I fight the urge to throttle Lannister, sure." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter definitely got away from me. I wasn't really expecting it to be quite so long, but I guess I could blame the playlist I've been listening to. So, just some side notes for the lot of you in case you are familiar with certain aspects that had been discussed in the chapter above:
> 
> In Almost Famous Lester Bangs is featured as the mentor to William and Lester is, in fact, a real person. He was a lauded rock journalist and Varys Lys was more or less inspired by him and a little bit of Elton John (thus the description.) Unfortunately, Lester passed away that the very young age of 32 after an accidental overdose, but he truly was a Nostradamus in terms of his beliefs regarding the state of rock 'n roll. He firmly believed that The Rolling Stones would remain relevant in the far-flung future and you know what? He was totally right.
> 
> As for the Riot House, it's a real hotel that housed the greats. Known as a kind of Shangri-La for denizens of the music industry it saw many a legend pass through its walls (and trash them) and ultimately, it was like the gateway to another universe where there were no rules and music and drugs intermingled freely in the hallways. Originally named the Gene Autry Hotel it was renamed the Andaz in 2009.
> 
> Honestly, this fic was almost based on Across the Universe, but I'm glad I chose the Almost Famous route. There's still room to go the other way, I suppose! But for now I have another chapter to write for a separate fic and I must find wicked and devious things to torture Jaime and Brienne with while I'm doing that. I'm also thinking about doing the next chapter in Jaime's point of view, but have not yet decided. I'm just chomping at the bit to get them out on the road!
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated.


	3. sweet days of summer

_ See the paper layin' in the sidewalk, a little music from the house next door _

_ So I walked on up to the doorstep, through the screen and across the floor _

_ Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in my mind _

_ \--  _ **_Seals & Crofts (Summer Breeze)_ **

 

**SAN FRANCISCO, 1973**

“They _what_?!” Varys’ tone has an edge of disbelief and something else, something harder to identify. Brienne frowns as she tries to place it, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder as she packs a suitcase.

“I know, can you believe it?” She knows the breathy tone in her voice must make her sound like a starry-eyed groupie to the professionally unimpressed journalist at the other end of the line, but she cannot help it. Having stepped into the strange, colorful world these men and women lived in she had no desire to return to the mundane and monochrome life she had only just exited from.

The drive back from Los Angeles had been full of excited chatter at first as Goldie attempted to explain the unspoken commandments of life on tour. _Thou shalt not talk of those at home on tour, wives and steady girlfriends, for example. Thou shalt not accept drinks from strangers. Thou shalt not do hallucinogens unattended._ A seemingly never-ending list of curious etiquette that vaguely reminded her of the rituals of courtesans of old.

“Kid, you still there?” Brienne snaps out of her reverie and nearly drops the phone, stepping back from the suitcase with a sigh.

“Yes, I’m still here. Let’s have it.”

“Well, if _Rolling Stone_ was game for the idea...go for it, but listen to me: do not befriend these people. They are not your friends and they never will be.” She pictures him then in a cramped apartment with wall-to-wall vinyl, chain-smoking as he always was whenever she encountered him. Was he speaking from experience? She had no reason to believe he wasn’t. “Don’t let them re-write you -- rock and roll is about the truth, kid. The gritty, hard-to-swallow truth.”

She sighs, a spike of anxiety shooting through her excitement as she mumbles, “I won’t, I won’t.” A once in a lifetime opportunity, a dream she had long harbored and all of it was real, wasn’t it? Never in her life had she imagined she would be getting lectured over the phone by _the_ Varys Lys, about to embark on a tour with Kingsguard.

Varys, as if sensing her sudden trepidation, softened the sharp barbs in his words. “Call me if you get stuck and need help, but I’m serious: be careful.”

When at last her first lecture was complete and she had hung up her fingers itched to dial Goldie if only for some last-minute advice as to how to phrase this to her father in a way that wouldn’t inspire a stroke. _No_ , she chides herself as she flips the suitcase shut. _Some things you just have to do yourself._

An hour later finds her exiting the Tarth household once more, ambling down the street with as much composure as she can muster to the always-waiting Beetle.

She’s nervous as she eases herself into Goldie’s car once more, nervous as they share a cigarette. Her heart a thing with wings beating frantically against her rib cage, torn between the triumph of getting her adventure and the image of her father sitting in that house all alone with his books and pictures.

It had not been a hard battle with him, which had surprised her yet again. He could see in her the desire to experience the world and in spite of his heavy reservations, he had done the most selfless thing he could: pressed a kiss to her cheek and told her to go. But not without conditions. Regular phone calls and updates on her location, even though she’d given him the itinerary.

She could hear all the words he had wanted to say but couldn’t as she walked out the door once more: _Be good, be safe, I love you._ To which she had always silently answered: _I will, I will, I love you too._

“It’s going to be magical, Brienne. I’m so glad I met you,” Goldie taps her knee, passing her the half-spent cigarette that Brienne dutifully ashes out the window. “This feels like fate, doesn’t it? Meant to be.”

Brienne nods, watching the smoke ease out of her lungs and billow out the car window, face pressed into the cradle created by the seat belt. Watching the landscape blur as they pass, carefully unsticking her bare legs from the hot worn leather seats. “I still can’t believe it’s all happening.”

Goldie laughs and something in it forces Brienne to look at her and at that moment she is convinced that this is the way she should always be: daisy sundress and round black sunglasses, the elegant arch of her neck swept by the soft waves of her beautiful golden hair. She half-expects her traveling companion to poke fun at her wistful mood, but instead, she turns up the radio as Jefferson Airplane’s _Somebody to Love_ invades the small space of the car.

They howl the lyrics together at the top of their lungs and Brienne’s anxiety melts away, pulled out of the cracked windows to dissipate on the interstate.

“It’s all happening,” Brienne laughs.

“It’s all happening,” Goldie affirms.

 

* * *

 

  
Jaime had already tucked himself into his seat by the time Rose and Aster mounted the steps of _Balerion_ , peering out the window and certainly not waiting for Goldie and her little tagalong to appear.

Loathe as he was to admit it, he had replayed the early morning conversation he had shared with this Brienne Tarth several times since their last meeting. Wondering how it was that a stranger seemed to have a better grasp on his nature than those closest to him, and he could count himself in that number. Yes, he had been angry at first: wondering what this little girl was doing on the fringes of their smokey kingdom, daring to call him to the floor in front of his bandmates, his brothers.

Aerys was right about one thing: she was dangerous. Someone with the ability to dissect and glean the smallest details had to be treated with the utmost caution. She was working for the same magazine that had torn Cream asunder, eviscerated every Led Zeppelin album.

“They’re jealous,” Aerys had once said, throwing the newspaper and the scathing article contained within far from his sight. “Tiny little people who **wish** they had the talent we do,” Jaime remembers Aerys’ eyes, pupils the size of marbles and stale, sweet liquor on his breath. “We’re gods among men, Jaime. The world is going to know.”

Gods were not meant to be questioned, were they? Absolute in rule, safe on their mountain tops high above the rest. It was funny to him that all of that pontificating, all of the strut and mayhem they orchestrated, was threatened by a too-tall girl who tried to make herself as small and unassuming as possible.

_There they are_ , his subconscious trills as he sinks lower into the upholstered seat. Brienne has both her suitcase and a few of Goldie’s clenched to her side, her pale cloud of blonde hair braided and away from her face once more. A faded Rolling Stones shirt and frayed shorts exposed unbelievably long legs and -- why was he even bothering to study her?

Of course her bright blue eyes land on him then and he stiffened involuntarily, but pride demanded he not break eye contact first. He watched as a frown tucked itself into the corners of her wide mouth, an awkward nod of acknowledgment to _him_?

Everyone finds their seats, and he finds himself painfully aware of the strategic positioning of it all. Sure, Goldie’s in the back laugh-talking softly with Brienne and that goddamn polaroid camera of hers, but as soon as she thinks her little friend is asleep she’ll float up to the front and drape herself on Aerys. Aster was a few seats behind him with Rose and he could feel her dark eyes boring into the back of his skull.

Ned was somewhere in the middle kingdom of the bus, a book in hand and brow furrowed in concentration. Good old Ned Stark, the safest and best of them all. How he managed to both ignore and endure the rest of them would always be a mystery to Jaime, especially as Robert thundered in, fashionably late as usual. Aerys entered next, pale and peaked as he usually did at the start of a tour. He didn’t speak, merely slumped into his seat and pulled a blanket over himself.

Last to board was Tyrion, a cigarillo in his mouth as he doffed his hat to Hodor, the usually mute driver. “Are we ready for adventure lads and lasses?”

They all stare mutely up the rows and Jaime finds himself smirking just a little, the leader of their circus unimpressed by their lack of enthusiasm.

“Fine, fine. Hodor, would you be so kind as to get this rolling tin can on the highway? Arizona is waiting for us.”

The bus sputters to life, slowly inching forward before Robert shoots to his feet. “Wait! Wait!”

“What is it, Rob?” Tyrion sighs as the bus lurches to a halt.

“I have to shit!” He announces and all of them groan in unison.

Forty-five minutes later he’s back on the bus and they’re finally off and rolling, leaving the familiar backdrop of California behind.

 

* * *

 

  
**NEVADA, 1973**

Five hours in and they stop for fuel at some nondescript gas station at the California-Nevada border. Everyone piles out, racing one another for the bathroom that was more than likely a complete horror show. Brienne lingers outside with her face to the setting sun, rolling her shoulders and smoking a cigarette.

They mill around that little shithole for about twenty minutes and by the time Jaime’s finally had his turn at the disgusting little bathroom Brienne seems to be trapped in idle conversation with the girls, tongue tracing a path on the popsicles that Goldie had been given for the price of a wink and a smile. Her eyes light on him, curious and questioning before she separates herself and finally walks toward him.

“I wanted to interview the band when we get in, figured I’d start with you if that’s okay?” He listens, but his eyes float beyond her to Aerys -- pale as a desert mirage. Even from this distance, Jaime knows his violet eyes are narrowed, suspicious and annoyed that out of everyone she could speak to first it’s him.

“Uh, Jaime?” She’s looking at him expectantly, ignorant to the unspoken rules. Jaime maintains a placid, disinterested facade as one shoulder hitches in a shrug, gaze falling back on her and the quickly melting popsicle.

“Yeah, yeah...fine, whatever. You’re making a mess.” When she stares at him he points to the red and blue syrup on her fingertips and...was that a blush creeping up her neck? He tries not to focus on it, or the way she licks it off like it’s nothing. Completely guileless, blushing in reverse, clueless blunt girl.

They pile back on the bus, the crinkle of chip bags and gas station sandwiches.

They don’t make it to the hotel at the opposite edge of Nevada until close to midnight and by then everyone is tired except for perhaps Aerys, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he pulls Goldie toward the pool. Jaime glances to the back and finds that Brienne had fallen asleep, her long legs hanging awkwardly off the seat in a position that couldn’t be kind to her back.

“Hey, Enemy,” he kicks her foot and she startles awake, clutching her satchel. “We’re at the hotel, c’mon.”

She mumbled something under her breath, peering up at him with that same equal parts annoyed and bewildered expression. “Where are we?”

“Still in Nevada. Hodor was starting to drift off at the wheel and to avoid last year’s incident we thought it best to pull over. Up, up!” He kicks at her feet again, side-stepping as she attempts to kick him back, guitar bouncing against the small of his back as he readjusts the strap.

She stumbles after him, breathing in the odd spice of desert air, her face turned up to the moon and the blanket of stars. Jaime watches her, his boots scuffing against the broken pavement, unsure of his fascination with watching her experience things. He turns then, fleeing toward the doors that would empty him into the lobby, the furious scratching from behind him a temporary distraction.

“What are you doing?”

There’s a moment of silence behind him before she finally answers, somewhat distracted. “Writing what I see, I don’t want to forget. Don’t you do that? I know you and Aerys write songs together.”

“Get that off the back of an album, did you?” Acidity washes into his tone before he can stop it and he does not need to turn around to see her impossibly blue eyes boring into the back of skull much as Aster’s had earlier. He could have easily allowed the logical part of his brain to remind himself that she didn’t know a damn thing about what went on, that what she was doing went against the sequestered life of musicians. “Look, I’m…”

But she brushes past him, hitting him with her suitcase as she goes. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” and there’s no mistaking the shortness in her tone. “Night, Jaime.”

Later as he’s sitting on the edge of his bed with a joint in one hand and Aster in the other he looks at the stack of napkins and scraps of receipt paper in his guitar case. His escape route, the one he was afraid to use that stared up at him every time he grabbed his guitar. Tonight it was almost accusatory, the echo of a discography that would never be made -- songs that would never leave the privacy of hotel rooms.

Aster’s hand settles on his jaw, draws his mouth to hers as he exhales the sticky-sweet smoke into her waiting mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Breakfast is an unhurried affair, Brienne and Ned seemed quite amiable as they sipped their coffee by the pool. Robert announcing his presence with a loud belch before taking another swig of a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Jaime? Are you listening to me?” His gaze returns to Tyrion’s face, brow quirking as he stubs out a cigarette.

“Not really, but keep talking anyway.”

“Prick,” Tyrion mutters fondly. “Anyway, just let Aerys do the talking for that radio show. It’ll make him less pissy.”

Jaime scoffs audibly, stabbing viciously at the lackluster oatmeal. “Do you believe that?”

“No, but let me have my delusions, brother. It’s a long tour, some harmony is necessary unless you want a scathing article published in _The Rolling Stone_.” He nods at Brienne as Goldie takes a seat with them, manicured feet settling on top of Brienne’s thighs as though it were nothing. Eyes doe-round and glassy. Was Ned breaking out pictures of the kid again?

“I’m not worried about her,” Jaime lies through his teeth and what’s worse? Tyrion knows it. The knowing is locked in the sudden, sly cut of his eyes and a small half-smile that means mischief, means _you-can’t-fool-the-person-who-knows-you-best._

_But do you?_ Jaime thinks, watching as Rose coaxes Robert into eating actual solid food. Watching as Aerys walks among them, bare-chested marble creature that he is -- high again, undoubtedly if Goldie’s behavior was any indicator. Hers was a warm, soothing high and his? Industrial, dangerous and metallic.

Tyrion had hoped that Goldie’s presence might calm him as it had last time, but Jaime was beginning to suspect whatever platitudes she might offer up were no longer enough to satiate him.

“Let’s get ready to go!” Tyrion shouts, a newspaper rolled into a makeshift megaphone, turning it in Robert’s direction. “Robert?”

“What?!”

“Don’t make us late again.”

 

* * *

 

  
**PHOENIX, ARIZONA 1973**

Aerys seemed pleased at how well the radio show had gone and once again he was the Great Entertainer -- charming even Brienne as she sat in on the interview, scribbling furious notes in that notepad of hers. He was good at this, drawing people to him as though he was bringing them into the strictest of confidences. People more diplomatic than Jaime might even hazard to call him ‘charismatic’ or ‘likable.’

Much like a stage magician, however, it was a game of whatever he let you see; fragments that were never the complete puzzle. He had not been the same since...well. None of them had been. Not lucky enough to get ahead of the rolling ball of the draft like others had, they’d seen enough war and enough blood that it lingered in their first two albums.

“‘Unlike that fuckin’ _coward_ , Fogerty, I was there.’” He remembered Rob spitting that into the face of some Fleet Street reporter right before he’d cold-cocked him.

All of them were damaged goods trying to escape the yoke of adult responsibility and the memories that seemed to drag along behind it like tin cans on a newlywed’s car. All of them had done their service and had done with it: Aerys was a medical discharge, Rob was dishonorable after hitting a C.O. (the very last of the last straws), Ned and Jaime finished their tours and said ‘enough.’

Looking at all of them now it seemed they had become the very antithesis of what the Marine Corps represented: honor, discipline, duty. Where was any of that now? Aside from the simple pact, they’d made when the band had started upon a lark in Stark’s garage: everyone plays together or no one plays at all.

“Jaime,” Brienne nudged his foot with her own and he shot up as though scalded, blinking peevishly in her direction. “Sorry, I was just going to ask…”

“I know, I know...later tonight when we get back.”

“Are you okay?” She asks, eyes raking over his face. “You were kind of out of it.”

“Is this on the record?” He sneers out of habit, teeth flashing in a decidedly carnivorous manner. _Leave me alone._

Her foot slams into his chair then and he spills onto the floor, a jumble of limbs and surprise, Brienne’s shoulders hitched up to her ears as she storms out to wait in the car. Jaime’s swearing lost beneath the roar of Robert’s laughter.

“She’s a feisty one, Lannister. I’d watch it if I were you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rob.”

 

* * *

 

  
Tension roiled like a storm-tossed sea between himself and Brienne for the rest of the day, glaring at one another and folding arms. Aerys found it hilarious, seeing it as his time to shine on the green journalist. They’d been co-conspirators for most of the day with Goldie in between them, orchestrating the smooth flow of conversation with a flip of her hair and some witty remark.

_Fuck the lot of you_ , he finds himself grousing. Retreating to the empty promise of privacy in his hotel room, fingertips sliding on guitar strings as he readies himself for the night’s show.

And what a fucking show that turned out to be.

The outdoor stadium was packed, the crush of bodies and the cacophony they created reverberating deep in his chest before they even mounted the stage. Painfully aware of the girls walking with Tyrion to the opposite end of the stage, they huddle up and Aerys leads the chant before they storm the platform.

He’s already sweating, the combination of desert heat and the bodies that surround them now playing the part of an oven. He doesn’t care though, awash in gooseflesh as he steps out and nudges the wire that connects his guitar to the amp glancing at Aerys who offers him a beatific smile.

_Let’s fucking go._

_“Oooooh darling, I can’t stay. Old Gods got me on my way…”_ Aerys’ voice fills the stadium, wafting sinuously above the screaming crowds and Jaime lets his unhappiness drift away. Lost in the sound with a smirk on his mouth as Ned’s bass leads them into the chorus.

His hand drops from his guitar, reaching for the mic in front of him and as his hand closes around it his muscles spasm. Electricity passing through him, body vibrating before he breaks away and staggers back, eyes rolling in the back of his head.

And suddenly he’s no longer on stage, feet sliding across the floor as Ned and Rob drag him down the tunnel. He was dimly aware of Aerys and Tyrion screaming at a mustachioed man that looks like a cheap imitation of Hunter S. Thompson; Brienne and Goldie rushing ahead of them to the tour bus as the roadies haul ass and haul gear.

“Listen here you fucking dishrag you nearly killed my lead guitarist!” Tyrion is roaring as they power walk to the exit. The promoter bouncing along behind them in a rage.

“You got paid for a half-hour set you fucking idiots! I want my goddamn half hour!”

“Fuck you!” Aerys snarls, bared teeth and cooling sweat glistening on his face. “We’re not giving you a half an hour in this fucking death trap!”

“Theft! Fucking thieves! Close the fucking gate they aren’t going anywhere!” He’s yelling into his walkie now, flecks of spittle flying through the air.

“Okay, Jaime?” Ned asks as they drop him into a seat, Hodor blocking the promoter’s entry into the bus and shutting the door in his face. He nods in reply, flexing his fingers.

The promoter is still screaming, empty threats wasted in the hot night air.

“My guitar? Where’s my…”

Brienne appears in his field of vision, brandishing his case. “I grabbed it off the stage.”

Her fingertips are strangely cool as they brush hair out of his face. “This sort of thing happen often?”

The bus lurches forward then, Hodor’s foot jammed down on the accelerator as Tyrion cries, “Who wants to buy a gate?”

They whoop in response, the impact of the crash sending Brienne careening into his side. “Sorry,” she mumbled, blushing in reverse again.

She sits with him for the duration of the drive, shrinking down as Aerys looms over them both, “How’s the patient, nurse?”

Brienne bristles ever so slightly, but a small, uncertain smile tucks itself into the corners of her mouth. “I think he’ll survive. I can’t believe that happened, Ned mentioned something about getting electrocuted a while back and I thought he was joking..”

“Well, now you know it’s not all glamor. Working musicians go through a lot on the road, especially when you’re trying to climb into the upper echelons like we are. You should add it to your article.”

Jaime glares, about to mount a protest, but the night air is bleeding in through the open windows and he wonders dimly if his heart is just going to randomly stop working at some point in his sleep. The rhythm thrown out of whack and somehow unable to find the proper beat.

He must have said it out loud because Aerys and Brienne are both staring at him now, matching frowns on their mouths. “That’s pretty dark, man. Wanna go get checked out?” And this Aerys is a familiar stranger, the one he’d known before Vietnam had torn him to pieces and rebuilt him unrecognizable.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

Brienne moves away from him then, no doubt to wander toward the back of the bus where Goldie was curled up, but in an act that surprised both himself and the journalist, his hand quickly snaked out to catch her wrist.

“Hey,” he finds himself muttering, watching her body go rigid as though she’d been shocked. Was she expecting another shitty remark? More than likely. “Thanks...for grabbing my guitar.”

Her head dips in a nod before he releases his grip, green eyes glued to the window and the passing shadows in the desert until unconsciousness fell like a dark, heavy wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Long time no post and I'm sorry for that. I'm pokey and I don't have a beta to beat me with a newspaper so there you have it. This chapter was more or less a little filler for the beginning of their journey and there's some intense stuff coming in the next chapter specifically as well as the chapters beyond it. 
> 
> Anyway, notes for this chapter: it's an unspoken rule that you do not uh...defecate on the tour bus. Bad things have happened, just ask Dave Matthews Band and those innocent tourists. Led Zeppelin was famously dragged continuously by a majority of major magazines and newspapers who felt they attracted the 'wrong crowds' and believe it or not there were people out there that HATED Robert Plant's voice. Plenty of people also credited The Rolling Stone as the reason for Cream's demise, but Eric Clapton later stated that it was the lack of harmony between the bandmates that led to their eventual dissolution in 1968.
> 
> And, to top it off, I know a lot of you are at least aware of the song 'Fortunate Son' by Creedence Clearwater Revival and most folks were under the impression that Fogerty served in Vietnam and that was the inspiration for the songs. Fact of the matter is that NONE of the members of CCR served in Vietnam. John Fogerty DID get drafted, but he managed to avoid going overseas by following the advice of a C.O. and registering in the Reserve as well as the Coast Guard. Also, if you listen to the lyrics of 'Fortunate Son' it is clearly anti-war and yet somehow has become one of 'the songs' for the military. Funny how that works. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> P.S. Please for the love of the Seven send me a beta-reader.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback soothes the dragons.


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